Top Stories
New stories you’ll love, handpicked for you by our team and updated daily.
worst memories. Runner-Up in Melodic Milestone Playlist Challenge.
INTRODUCTION: AN ULTIMATE PLAYLIST To our worst memories; may they also be our best. That toast, known as “the Watcher’s Toast,” in a fantastical world I often write in, is meant to encourage reflection and peacefulness in one’s memories. Imagine if when you died, you had to relive your worst memory for eternity. That would be hell, wouldn’t it? But if you think about it, memories are always connected, connected by ever long strings which constantly remind us of each other memory. So, if you take the time and reflect and remember how your worst, darkest, most soul-crushing moments eventually forged you into greatness, reliving them wouldn’t be so bad. That’s why this playlist, which I made to listen to on my last drive ever home from college, is titled, “worst memories.”
By Jared W.E.about a year ago in Beat
Just Say Cheese Please
Europe Sweden Vasterbottenostpah is a traditional cheese pie. The crust is made with flour, butter, and cold water. The pie is filled with a mixture of eggs, milk, cream, Vasterbotten cheese, salt, and white pepper. The cheese consists of cow’s milk and has a firm, granular texture with a sweet and savory flavor. Once prepared the filling is poured into the baked pie crust and baked in the oven until the cheese is melted and the pie is golden brown.
By Rasma Raistersabout a year ago in Feast
Tastes Like Chicken
When was the last time you ate crow? I mean figuratively, of course, as the carrion-eating crow is generally deemed an unappetizing food, even mentioned Biblically as an animal that should not be consumed. Really! I'm talking about those emotionally hard-to-swallow moments that get your stomach churning and leave you second-guessing yourself well into the wee hours of the morning. We've all been there, but I tend to put myself in a position to eat crow like it's a culinary delicacy.
By Laura Merchantabout a year ago in Motivation
Manipulating Language: VENUS VALLEY reads Helen Joyce's "Trans"
Welcome to a hard, sobering chapter. If you've just got here, this is a chapter-by-chapter release of my LGBTQIA+ philosophy book - for you, my queerly beloved readers, to debate, discuss, question, contribute, so the finished book speaks for us all. I'm breaking the flow of my chapter order, to respond to a book that does the exact opposite - and make it a lesson in the abuse and manipulation of language: Helen Joyce's Trans - When Ideology Meets Reality. Come down this rabbit hole, gentles and lady-men, with Venus Valley: Queer Philosophers' Forum.
By Mx. Stevie (or Stephen) Coleabout a year ago in Pride
Mummy Took Me To Watch The Hanging Today
WARNING - CONTENT REFLECTS TITLE & IMAGE. IF YOU KEEP READING, THAT'S ON YOU. Little chin upturned, big eyes stretched in owlish fascination. Watching in innocence the unknown man step forward to his fate. Does the man's face look wet? His trousers?
By L.C. Schäferabout a year ago in Fiction
How Roleplaying Improved My Writing
Let me clear this up right now: I’m not talking about Dungeons & Dragons or cosplay. I mean, I’m sure that there are ways in which those kinds of roleplay can help with your writing, but since I’ve never participated in either—I know, bad geek, bad geek—then I wouldn’t know from personal experience. What I am talking about is online text-based roleplaying games, specifically ones played through internet forums.
By Stephanie Hoogstadabout a year ago in Geeks
The Disease
I sit here sipping my coffee, gazing at the mountains peaking through trees, chewing on a question I keep returning to. I admire bravery, I always have. Surely with the rise of super hero movies, I am to believe that most of society also admires bravery. Though, it looks very different from Batman knocking out criminals in the night. Bravery for most of us, is a subtle choice in a moment that may really only be noticed by ourselves.
By Laura Lannabout a year ago in Humans
Disconnect
He’s late, again. Like every other night. Liz grips the top of the armchair as she feels her stocking snag on a splintered corner of parquet flooring. Steadying herself, she resumes her circuit of the front room – back and forth, back and forth – every footstep in time with the cheerless ticking of the grandfather clock.
By Caroline Cravenabout a year ago in Fiction